Choices
by unilocular
Summary: With an absent Gibbs and a serial killer on the loose, Tim McGee's hands are more than full. When a lead ties their case to France, Tony DiNozzo returns to help out.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.  
**

**Title:** Choices  
**Summary: **With an absent Gibbs and a serial killer on the loose, Tim McGee's hands are more than full. When a lead ties their case to France, Tony DiNozzo returns to help out.  
**Rating**: Mild Teen  
**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers through Season 16x23. Mentions of Tali.

**Author's Note: **_The main story is already complete and will be posted in full on Friday. I'm using this as a place holder to post a link on LJ. I will be adding an epilogue later. Real life has kept me from putting it together. _

_Just as a note: there is no real mention of Ziva in this story. There is no Tiva and only a passing references to Tali. It is set right before 16x24. I haven't been watching the show as religiously as I used to. I apologize for any errors in timeline or show history._

_It's also first person POV. So a little different than the norm. _

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Hunkered behind at my desk, I stare blankly at the computer screen. A neon green bar creeps across the monitor. It moves slow enough to feel like torture. The longer I watch it, the more it blurs into the desktop. I press my fingers against my eyes. Sleep is right there, waiting for me. I'm desperate to ward it away. It's the one thing I don't have time for right now. While yesterday never technically ended for me, today is still gearing up.

Someone clears their throat. I peer out from behind my hands as though I play an impromptu game of Peek-a-boo. Nick Torres and Ellie Bishop linger in front of my desk. They share a look, wide-eyes and deep frowns. Grim, concerned. I recognize it all too well. With Gibbs being in and out—well, more out than in lately—from the office, I am senior field agent _and _playing acting supervisory senior agent while pretending that everything is okay. Between work and the twins, I don't remember the last time I caught more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Ellie's smile is cautious. "Have you been here all night, McGee?"

"Yeah." G-d, I didn't know I could sound so tired. "I was just waiting for the case records to come through from the Marseille branch. While I was here, I figured – "

"It figures a chess playing serial killer would be a French thing," Nick scoffs.

Swiveling towards Nick, Ellie narrows her eyes. She punches him in the shoulder with a loud _thwack. _If looks could kill, he would be pushing up daisies. Monty Python, Flying Circus.

"What?" Nick rubs at the spot on his shoulder. "Don't you two think it's weird that our serial killer leaves a hand carved chess piece behind?"

Ellie considers for a moment. "Well, they _are _murdering petty officers. So the killer probably isn't entirely sane."

"Good point." Nick nods his agreement.

I roll my eyes. "Anyway, I decided to kill some time by searching for a link to the chess set. Then, I tried again and again and…" I let myself trail off.

"How'd that work out for you?" Nick asks, grinning and looking at Ellie.

She elbows him in the ribs. He grunts, his smile turning sheepish while he rubs at his side. If they keep this up, Nick will be covered in bruises by lunch time. He places his coffee cup on my desk as an offering. Maybe even an apology. Though everyone knows that Nick doesn't apologize.

"You need this more than me, man," he says.

I nod. "Thanks."

The mere sight of coffee turns my stomach sour. I lost count of my trips to cafeteria sometime in the mid-afternoon. After it closed, I hit the vending machine in the breakroom. My caffeine consumption, right now, is somewhere between developing a stomach ulcer and discovering the LD50 for caffeine.

I waver at the paper cup. I touch the side under the cardboard sleeve. It's warm, but not too hot. The more I think about it, the more I decide I _might _need a little more to jumpstart the day. I haven't had any coffee since 0600. Which was a little less than two hours ago. I might not be as bad as Gibbs yet, but I am well on my way.

I sample Nick's drink. It is sweet and chocolate and just _gross. _I manage to hide a gag. I pass it back to Nick, who sips it without hesitation.

"What is that?" I ask.

"Café mocha with extra mocha." He grins. "I like to let the whipped cream melt into it."

I shudder. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Your loss, man."

I might not agree. I decide to stick to black coffee until I turn into Gibbs or it kills me. Whichever comes first. It reminds me of that time, _years_ ago, when Abby Scuito calculated exactly how much caffeine—subdivided into cups of her beloved CafPows, black coffee, café lattes, and iced coffees—would take me out. The paper with all her math is buried somewhere in my desk. While I might have to make some adjustments for weight now, I bet I could figure out how much more I could have and still be okay. The only caveat is first, I must remember how much I've already had.

Ellie is talking.

I blink. "Huh?"

She shares another concerned glance with Nick. "How did Delilah take another all-nighter, McGee?"

Turning back to my computer screen, I half-shrug. The green bar is still creeping, still crawling, still slinking. I'd rather not think about Delilah's disappointed sigh and her quietly whispering, _It's fine, Tim. _I know it's not fine and she does too, but it's something we always say we'll talk about later. Expect later never comes and we never deal with it.

Thankfully, Ellie doesn't press. She nods and heads to her desk. I watch as she boots up her computer and readies for the day.

Nick hangs back. "Did you hear from the Marseille office yet?"

I check my e-mail. All I find is an influx of spam along with a Cease and Desist e-mail from Splendifida regarding a recent purchase I made on Delilah's account. I glance at the computer clock. Not quite 0800, which means it would be nearly 1400 in France. I forgot about the time difference when I sent the e-mail yesterday, but I expected them to be more responsive. I filled out the appropriate requisition forms—103b, 201a-q, and 643d—to request the evidence from the American victims. G-d, I hope the SSA over there isn't a control freak like Gibbs is.

Ellie perks up. "Should I call them, McGee?"

I wave my hand with a _go ahead _motion. Nodding, she lifts her phone and starts entering a long string of numbers. I return to watching the search bar slink across the screen. Pixel. After pixel. After pixel. Instead, I stare at my most recent picture on my desk. Delilah, in her wheelchair, with Johnny and Morgan on her lap. Everyone is grinning, happy and beaming.

Nick lingers by my desk, sipping his coffee and watching Ellie on the phone. When she sweeps her hair behind her hair, his smile turns drunken. He looks like a love-struck teenager staring at his crush across a crowded lunchroom.

I start to tell Nick to get to work, but I catch a glimpse of someone on the stairs. Leon Vance appears to be joining us. Nick shoots me a questioning glance. I shrug. When he sidles beside Nick, I force a tight, not overtired, not overworked smile.

"Hello, Director," I say.

"Good morning, Agent McGee. Torres. Bishop." Vance nods at me and Nick and we cautiously return the gesture. He cranes his neck at Ellie, who offers a distracted wave.

Nick looks as though to say, _Find out why he's here and get rid of him. _I take in Vance's uncharacteristically bright demeanor. Something doesn't feel right. I might not have that fabled Gibbs gut, but I do have a sinking feeling in my stomach. Or, maybe, I am developing an ulcer from the coffee.

Leaning forward in my chair, I cross my arms on my desk. The picture of nonchalance.

"What can I do for you, Director?" I ask calmly.

Vance's eyes are trained on the elevator. "The Executive Assistant Director for European Operations took a personal interest in your case, McGee. He flew in from Marseille to meet with your team in person. He's on his way up and I didn't want to miss it."

Great, the whatever director from Marseille is enough of a control freak to hop across the Atlantic and commandeer our case. I thought Gibbs was bad. This person is going to be a total nightmare. I bet I'll get the exciting job of entertaining the low-level bureaucrat today.

"Executive Assistant Director for European Operations," Nick says slowly as though tasting the words. "Is that a fancy name for a secretary? Every time I order a sub at the place down the street, the guy calls himself a sandwich artist." He draws the word out like _arteeest. _

"Not quite." Vance's genial smile turns irritated. "The EADEO oversees our European counterparts."

"I thought that was your job," Nick blurts out.

The whole room turns deadly silent as though the air suddenly disappeared. I grimace while Ellie just stares slack-jawed at Nick. He releases a desperate half-laugh, half-cough. It sounds like he is choking. Then, he looks to me as though I could save him. I shake my head because he is on his own.

To his credit, Vance genuinely laughs. "Despite what you might think, I can't do _everything_. I have my hands more than full here, Agent Torres."

Vance stares at Nick with enough derision to make him squirm. Nick locks eyes with me, trying to play it cool. Sweat beads to his forehead while Vance's glare attempts to bore a hole in his head. I let Nick flounder for a long moment. Sometimes, he needs someone to knock him down a notch.

Nick is rescued when the elevator doors glide open. A man purposefully strides towards the bullpen. I instantly recognize that self-assured swagger, that impeccable designer suit, that expertly styled hair. Though now, the familiar figure sports a pair of black, thick framed glasses and days old stubble. He clutches a large cardboard box marked _Evidence. _

Dumbfounded, I scramble to my feet. I lean, hands flat against the desktop and mouth gaping. I blink owlishly because I could be dreaming. I must be dreaming…

"Is that who I think it is?" Nick asks.

Vance smirks.

I blurt out: "What are you doing here, Tony?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.**

**Author's Note:**_ Thanks for the favs, follows, and reviews. I'm still humbled to see people enjoying my work.  
_

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

I blink again, unable to believe my friend is here. When he left three years ago—unintended retirement, he called it—he swore he would never set foot in the building again. And yet, here he is as though he never left. To me, it could be just another day in a different time of my life.

Without breaking stride, Tony heads straight for Vance. He hitches the evidence box to his left hip and extends his right hand. His smile is warm and broad, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Executive Assistant Director DiNozzo," Vance says, enthusiastically shaking Tony's hand.

Tony flushes slightly. "That's quite the mouthful, Director. I think Tony fits me better."

Vance grins. "First names it is then."

"You got it, Direct – " Vance's pointed stare interrupts him " – er, _Leon." _

"I trust your flight was adequate."

"A last-minute flight on your personal jet?" Tony smirks. "It beats the hell out of jump seats on a cargo plane. Though, I felt like Harrison Ford in _Air Force One." _

For some strange reason, Vance laughs as though he gets the movie reference. I doubt he has even heard of _Air Force One, _let alone seen it. He is in full schmooze mode, something he reserves for career bureaucrats and politicians. I can't remember Vance ever laughing or even pretending to appreciate Tony's movie references. Tony must notice it too because he forces another uncomfortable smile.

While I feel Nick and Ellie's eyes searching for direction, I can't rip my own from Tony. The chunky glasses, the designer suit, the coiffed hair, the confident posture. Tony DiNozzo is back in the bullpen and I'm not hallucinating. At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not.

My overworked brain prattles away to itself at a thousand miles an hour. The details of our current case and the need for more caffeiene and Gibbs going AWOL and _Tony here _pinball around in there. Tony DiNozzo is here with a box of requisitioned evidence and Vance acting like he is Darth Sidious and Tony is Anakin Skywalker. Has Tony officially gone over to the Dark Side? _Star Wars._

Vance turns to address us. "You remember the MCRT, right?"

Tony's expression turns confused. We all share an awkward smile.

"That was a joke, DiNozzo."

Tony barks a laugh, short and forced. Ellie and Nick chuckle politely. I don't even move because my brain hasn't even processed what I'm seeing yet. I feel like a computer stuck in a Windows update. Still updating…86% complete. Don't shut down or turn off your computer.

Vance's features pinch. "I don't think you've met Agent Torres."

"I finally get to meet the Torres before Torres." Nick offers his hand. "Nice."

"Try the DiNozzo after DiNozzo." Tony carefully shakes it. "Maybe we should say you're like the Roger Moore to my Sean Connery? The same James Bond, but with a slightly different flavor."

Nick's brow furrows as he tries to make sense of it all. He is still contemplating it when Ellie appears to grab Tony for a tight hug. Tony returns it until he notices Nick's nasty glare. At that moment, Tony jumps back like he's been electrocuted. He shifts the box between him and Ellie. Then, he takes a long moment to study me. Something that could be respect flashes in his eyes_. _

"Hey Tim," Tony gently says.

And that's when everything clicks in my brain. I'm not dreaming. Tony is here. Here in the bullpen as a—well, I don't even remember what Vance said—but it is a position that puts him in line to be NCIS Director someday. Until now, I believed Tony was unemployed and sightseeing around Europe with Tali and his father. It's all a lie. He _lied _to me.

My breath catches in my throat. I'm already moving, tripping and scrambling over my feet.

Tony opens his mouth to speak, but I grab his arm.

"Excuse us, Director," I choke out. "I need a word with…" My voice trails off because I don't even know what to call Tony now.

"EADEO," Nick supplies.

Tony gives him the side-eye. "Did you just call me Daddio?"

"Tony," I say. "I need a word with Tony."

Before anyone say anything, I drag my friend straight out of the bullpen. The surprised faces of Vance and Nick as well as Ellie's expression with her mouth pulled into a little _o _blur together. Tony and I end up in that alcove underneath the stairs. It isn't completely private, but it will do for now.

My back faces the bullpen. I feel three sets of eyes staring at us, but I ignore them.

"What are you doing here?!" My tone is harsher than I intended.

Tony holds out the evidence box. "I brought everything you asked for." I stare at him blankly. "You know, the evidence related to the Echiquier murders."

"The _what?" _

"Echiquier means chessboard in French. That's what we've been calling them at the office." Frowning, Tony shakes the evidence box. Something rattles against the cardboard. "It was your signature on the requisition form, wasn't it?"

My eyes jump from Tony's face to the box and back again. "No, Tony, I'm not talking about the case. I mean, _here._" I use my fingers to gesture around the building. "What are you doing at NCIS? I thought you retired to spend time with Tali and your dad. Then, you show up as director of…of…"

"_Assistant_ Director of European Operations," he corrects.

I feel like I'm just short of cracking up. "What. Is. Going. On?"

"_Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."_

I don't need to be told the quote is from _The Godfather: Part III. _Even Tony knows I watched _that _one because it was on the _McGee Must Watch List _he created. I just stare at him until he clears his throat. He messes with his tie. He glances back to the bullpen and makes a face at someone.

"It's a long story, Tim."

"Believe me, I've got time."

Tony licks his lips. Shifts his weight. Fidgets with the box until I wrest it out of his hands. We end up fighting over it. He clutches one end with both hands while I try to wrap my arms around it like it's a football. Eventually, Tony surrenders. I topple into the wall with the box in my arms. He half-smiles as I right myself against the wall. He straightens his crooked glasses.

"Just tell me what's going on," I plead.

Tony looks back to the bullpen. "It started after you and Gibbs disappeared in Paraguay. I wanted to do something to help. We all did. More than just talking Delilah and Abby down from the going crazy ledge every day."

Flinching, I desperately try not to think about what my wife and close friend went through. I thought about it enough in Paraguay. That mental torture was worse than what the rebels put Gibbs and me through. I try not to do it here too. The past is the past, Dr. Confalone says in our therapy sessions. Move forward.

_Forward_.

"Vance asked me to review some rebel chatter. He thought I might recognize a mention of you or Gibbs that the analysts missed. You know, like the grey-haired gringo who built a sniper rifle out of a stick or – " he smiles weakly at me " – the nerd who fashioned a computer out of beer cans and tin foil."

Memories from the rebel camp flood back to me. The unbearable stuffiness of the boat hold. The constant rocking of the boat with the unrelenting seasickness. The unspeakable terror every time Gibbs and I were separated. Never knowing if I would see him again. Never knowing if I would ever see Delilah again. Never knowing –

I suddenly notice my fingers are throbbing because I clutch the box too tightly. Tony slides his hands into the box's handles. His warm skin grazes mine. It returns me to the moment. I'm afraid to give him the box because I know my hands will shake. Tony holds it with me. Our eyes meet; he nods.

"Vance wouldn't let me stay in Paris," he continues. "Apparently, the recordings were a national security issue. So Dad, Tali, and I relocated to Marseille for a few months. They were thrilled. Beach town in the summer. I worked on those recordings every day, but I didn't find anything helpful." Frowning, he looks away again. "I'm sorry I failed you."

I grip his forearm. "You tried. We made it home. That's all that matters, right?"

"Yeah." Tony clips a nod. "While I was there, one of the SSAs took an extended medical leave. I was temporarily re-instated because that branch was short-staffed. Long story short, he went on permanent disability and I decided to stay. A few months back, the EADEO retired and here we are."

"I can't believe it," I breathe.

Tony releases the box. The sudden, unshared weight surprises me. I nearly drop it straight to the floor. I glance at him. Behind his glasses, Tony's eyes are narrowed.

"What does that mean, Tim? Did you think I couldn't earn a promotion?"

I blink. Once, twice. "Wait, what?"

Did I say something out loud that I meant to think? Oh crap. Based on Tony's pinched mouth and further narrowed eyes, I must have. He starts back to the bullpen. I fumble with the box, almost dropping it, to lunge for my friend's arm. I jerk him back to our space. His eyes are wide and surprised at my uncharacteristic brusqueness. All I offer is an apologetic smile and tripping over my words.

"That wasn't what I meant," I say. "I always knew you could get your own team. Actually, I never understood why you didn't. I just…" I push a breath through my teeth as I try to organize my racing thoughts. "I just can't believe you never told me. I mean, it's been two years."

"I should have," Tony admits.

"Why didn't you?"

"It was never the right time." Tony's frown deepens. "When you came back from Paraguay, you never wanted to talk about work. I thought it was a sore spot after what happened to you. We got into a rut about only discussing our families, so it never really came up."

I sigh. "I thought you didn't want to hear about Gibbs."

"After I heard he was okay, I really didn't." Tony shrugs with one shoulder. "But if it's important to your life, we probably should talk about it. I mean, I'm sure you're probably tired of hearing about movies."

"Not at all," I say honestly.

The sudden silence sets my nerves on edge. I shift my weight and drop my eyes to the top of the box. On the top, there are notes in Tony's handwriting. I only recognize a few words from high school French.

I sigh dejectedly. "I've been a crappy friend."

"Right there with you, Probie." Freezing, he presses his lips together. An act of contrition. "I forgot how much you hated that nickname."

"I might miss it." I hold my index finger and thumb imperceptibly apart. "Just a little."

His grin is infectious. Then, he trills in a strange and awkward voice, "_What we have here is a failure to communicate." _

I furrow my brow.

"Come on, McGee, that was an easy one. _Cool Hand Luke. _Paul Newman on a chain gang." When I act as though I know what he's talking about, Tony throws his hands up in mock exasperation. "It's an American classic. It was on that list I gave you."

"I'm still working on it."

"It was on the top!" Tony sounds mortally offended. I think he's pretending, maybe.

"Delilah and I are skipping around."

Tony makes a show of sizing me up as though I'm a suspect and he is discerning whether I'm telling the truth. I put on my best poker face, but I end up laughing. When Tony joins in, I feel like we're at my apartment spending a quiet night while he is in town. I let myself relax for the first time in a long time.

"Are we okay?" I ask.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing. If you're good, I'm good."

I half-smile. "I'm great."

"So am I." He considers for a moment. "Only if you watch _Cool Hand Luke _by the next time I visit again."

"I think I can manage." I let Tony take the box. "How's Tali?"

Tony checks his watch. "Probably trying to con my dad into taking her to the beach right about now. How are the twins?"

I study the top of my shoes. Most days, I barely see the twins. I might manage to catch them right before bedtime or share a quick breakfast in the morning. Lately, work has been demanding more hours, more time, more of me. I usually leave for work before they're awake and return long after they're asleep. And that's if I'm lucky enough to make it home at all.

I force a smile. "Great."

If Tony knows I'm lying—which I'm pretty sure he can tell—he doesn't call me out. Instead, he claps a hand on my shoulder. Then, he peers back towards the bullpen.

"It looks like they got bored with watching is." He cracks a half-smile. "I guess that means we should get back. Otherwise, Vance might send someone over to check on us."

"Don't you mean _Leon?" _I joke.

Tony just tightens his grip on the evidence box before stalking off towards the bullpen. I hang back, desperate to figure out how that upset Tony. Usually, he loves the quips and sarcastic jabs. It was always the hallmark of our relationship. Trying to one up each other with who could get the best dig. Any other time Tony would have laughed and lobbed a jab right back at me.

I trail him back to the bullpen. By the time I arrive, Tony is unloading the evidence box onto Gibbs' desk. Vance is still there, overseeing Nick and Ellie. I attempt to slink back to my desk without being seen. It's a futile and impossible task since Vance guards by the entrance to the bullpen.

"Agent McGee?" he asks.

I flinch. "Yes?"

"Where is Agent Gibbs?"

I'm about to say the truth, _I don't know. _But instead, it comes out as, "He took a personal day, Director."


	3. Chapter 3

Vance clips a nod like he understands I'm lying. I wait for him to call me out, but he doesn't. Even though I try to be unobtrusive on the way to my desk, I feel as though everyone's eyes are glued to me. I jiggle my mouse to wake my computer. The lime green bar is complete with the words, _No Results Found _flashing underneath. Yet another dead end. Great.

What I wouldn't give for Gibbs to come striding into the bullpen right now. What I would give for him barking orders and slurping coffee like _that's _what NCIS pays him for.

The elevator doesn't ding. He doesn't swoop in to take over. I have been on my own for several days now. I bet he is probably laying low in his basement with a bottle of Bourbon in one hand and a belt sander in the other. It isn't a question of whether Gibbs is sober—because I know he isn't. But whether he is conscious and upright.

He started acting strangely a few months ago. I chalked it up to the reality of our Paraguayan detour catching up to him. He always acted like the entire ordeal was nothing. Being held hostage. Being tortured. Losing time with our loved ones. Not a big deal. Just another day at the office for Gibbs. For me, it changed me on a base level. I breathe it, I live it, every single day. I asked—_begged—_him to talk to Dr. Confalone. He didn't and I didn't know how to push. I knew it would come to bite us in the ass. And it did, one day, he just withdrew. I am trying to give him time heal, the same grace he gave me. I just don't know how much longer I can do both our jobs before I unravel too.

Vance is talking. "…handle it from here, Agent McGee."

"Yeah…uh, yes Director." I manage a wane smile. "I'm on it."

After another firm handshake and "thanks for coming" to Tony, Vance retreats to his office. I watch him climb the stairs and vanish. My eyes linger long after he is gone.

Tony stands in the center of the bullpen, arms crossed. He seems to be debating about where he should work. Eventually, he gives a little shrug and commandeers Gibbs' desk. There is no hesitation on his way into what used to be his temple of Gibbs. Though, it is more of a mausoleum recently. Tony boots up the computer and frowns at the screen. I hope he remembers how to use Windows XP because Gibbs still won't let me update his system.

Tony looks at me knowingly as though to tell me he _gets _it. I wish I knew how many time Tony was in my current predicament. Picking up the lead when Gibbs needed time. Schmoozing the LEOs when Gibbs tried to bulldoze them on a case. Keeping the team one step ahead Gibbs' wrath. Trying to figure out which direction he'll want to take an investigation before he does. It's a delicate balancing act, a tightrope to walk every day. I keep waiting to fall.

Tony props his elbows on the desk. "What have we got?"

Ellie double-checks with me. I wave my hand to say _go ahead. _She falls back into the old routine with a surprising ease. She presents the case to Tony as though he were Gibbs. After a few clicks, she loads a picture of a dark-haired and chubby cheeked man in dress whites. A split second later, there is an image of the same man. Now, his face is tinged with grey-blue skin of death. His head against an autopsy slab.

Ellie inhales deeply. "Petty Officer FC Jonah Sizemore, E-7. 36 years old. Married 8 years, one child. He was on day 3 of two weeks of shore leave from the USS Charleston. His wife reported him missing on Tuesday morning after he didn't return from a night out with friends. His nude body was found in Rock Creek Park later that day." Another click, a picture of a torso with obvious knife wounds. "Palmer ruled cause of death as exsanguination."

"Great," Tony says like it's anything but. "Do we have any hits on the weapon?"

Ellie tosses the remote to Nick, who brings up an enlarged picture of the torso. The wounds are deep, angry slashes against the pale flesh.

"The wounds," Nick says, "were made by a weapon approximately eight inches long with serrations. Kasie – "

"Kasie?" Tony interrupts.

I smile sadly. "Abby's replacement."

"Yeah," Nick offers. "She's a lot like Abby." He thinks for a moment, the continues. "Just not Goth or addicted to CafPow or excitable. I bet she wouldn't lock me in a coffin."

"Do I want to know?" Tony asks.

I shake my head. "All we need to know is she gets results. _Like Abby_."

Nick claps his free hand against the remote. It echoes like a slap. "That's what I meant to say. She gets results like Abby. Anyway, Kasie thinks the blade is likely a standard hunting knife. It is not standard issue military, but it's mass produced. It can be found at almost any major retailer. Online or in store."

Tony's expression sours. "That sounds like a dead end."

"Tell us about it." Nick turns back to the screen. "And that is our most promising lead. There weren't any prints on the body. No physical evidence. His military ID was found beside the body, so whomever killed him wanted us to know who he was. Then, there's the chess piece."

Nick displays an image of the chess piece at two different angles. A pawn, hand carved from some light wood and barely stained. On the underside, there is longhand cursive writing that is barely legible. While this is our most promising lead, we have no way to trace it. This is the part of the case bothering me. The pawn is so mundane, so inconspicuous. Yet, it means everything.

Tony keeps his eyes on the image. "Is this what lead you to fill out the requisition form?"

"Not me," Nick says. "McGee."

That snaps me from my daze. "Oh yeah, the requisition form. Sizemore was found clutching that chess piece in his left hand. Kasie thought the wood was maple. We have no idea what it could mean. I checked for murders for a similar MO in the database and – " I gesture at Tony " – here we are."

"What does your chess piece say?" Tony asks.

I check my case notes because I can't read the handwriting on the pawn. "'Winter kept us warm, covering.' We have no idea what that means."

"Me neither. Though your piece is identical to the ones from our murders in Europe. We have four with the same MO." Tony's eyes darken as he pulls case files from his evidence box. "Nude men found stabbed with their military IDs and a chess piece in their left hands."

I raise my eyebrows and start taking notes. My pen scritches against the notepad as I try to keep up.

Tony flips through the case files. "The first victim was found in a field outside Marseille in December 2017. Petty officer on liberty. The second one was found in the same field in January 2018. There were just under two weeks between the murders. Another petty officer on liberty. Victim number three was found in Naples in June 2018. Petty officer on liberty." He presses his lips together as he shakes his head. "The fourth was found in the same area, just under two weeks later. That man was a Zoomie stationed in Stuttgart. We kept jurisdiction since it seemed like he is a victim of the same killer. They all had a pawn in their hand. One of the SFAs started calling them the Echiquier murders."

"Echiquier?" Nick says as though it doesn't fit on his tongue.

"French for chessboard," I explain. His eyes are blank. "You use pawns in chess."

"Oh yeah." He taps his forehead. "Duh."

I turn back to Tony. "I know there was writing on the bottom of your chess pieces, Tony. What do they day? I couldn't read the handwriting in the photos."

Tony opens the evidence box to produce four identical pawns. They are entombed in plastic bags marked with _Evidence _in black letters. He attempts to read their bases before screwing up his face. He lines them up on the desk, shoulder to shoulder like macabre little soldiers. He fishes a yellow legal pad out and flips through the pages.

He reads, carefully enunciating the words: "'April is the cruelest month, breeding.  
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing.  
Memory and desire, stirring.  
Dull roots with spring rain.'"

"'Winter kept us warm, covering,'" Ellie adds.

"It almost sounds – " I search for the right word " – poetic."

The silence stretches as we consider as we consider what I just said. The words are hauntingly, achingly familiar. I _know _them from somewhere, but I can't place them. It is like a dream when you wake up and can't remember what happened, but the feeling lingers just beneath the surface. I press my fingers against my eyes as though it could force the memories to return. All I catch are glimpses of Delilah and Paraguay, coming home.

"Where have I heard that before?" I mutter.

"'Winter kept us warm, covering,'" Ellie repeats.

"We already know what ours says," Nick says. "But if you – "

Jumping to her feet, Ellie slams her hands on her desk. My head snaps up.

"McGee, that's it!" she exclaims. "Peanut butter Nerds and ginger beer."

I stare at her like a dead fish. "What?!"

"Peanut butter Nerds and ginger beer," she says, surer this time. As though it explains everything.

"Hold up, Bishop." Nick lifts his hand. "Number one, that sounds absolutely disgusting. And number two, what in the actual heck are you talking about?"

Ellie narrows her eyes at him. "Finals week. Junior year. Spring semester."

"And?"

They square off. "I ate purple Nerds dipped in Skippy peanut butter and washed them down with ginger beer. My older brother, Charlie, used to make ginger beer in our garage and sell it at – "

"Bishop?" I interject, gently redirect her. "What does this have to do with our case?"

"I took a poetry class and my final paper was on TS Eliot's _The Wasteland." _She jabs an accusing finger at Nick. "And before you say anything, I got an A. Thank you very much."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "I wasn't going to." Then, he murmurs, "Nerd," under his breath.

"I heard that!" she snaps.

That's why it sounded so familiar. When I got back from Paraguay, I retreated to my apartment. I didn't leave the bed, let alone the bedroom for days. Delilah would lie next to me, her barely pregnant stomach against my back. She would read me everything we had from our bookshelves. If I just heard her voice, I knew I was safe. We were together. TS Eliot and other assorted poems helped urge to join the ranks of the living again.

Tony adjust his glasses, deep in thought. "So our killer is Bobby Fisher meets _Dead Poets' Society? _That's a new one, even for me."

Nick stares at Tony like he has lost his mind. He furrows his brow, unable to take his eyes off Tony.

"Bobby Fisher? Dead poets? What are you talking about, man?"

"Bobby Fisher, chess master," Tony explains slowly. "_Dead Poets' Society. _Great movie with Robin Williams and Ethan Hawke. It's all about looking at poetry from a different perspective."

Nick licks his lips. "What does it have to do with our case?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

Nick glances to me as though I could explain Tony's thought process. He seems to think comparing homicides to movies isn't a completely normal process. For me and Ellie, it is. Well, it used to be.

I smirk. "You can ask our serial killer why he likes chess and TS Eliot when we catch him."

Nick flinches. "Good idea."

I turn back to Tony. "Did you learn anything about the chess set?"

"Absolutely nada." He screws his face up in disgust. "The forensics team in Naples couldn't find any maker's mark on the pawns. No hits on the handwriting. My team and I – "

"Your team?" I interrupt.

Tony grimaces as though he got caught cheating on his lover. "The agents I work with in Naples, Tim."

A pang gnaws deep in my chest. An urge for something familiar. Homesickness, maybe. I knew Tony could—would—have another team, if he ever moved elsewhere in the agency. I just always thought of us as partners with that unbreakable bond. What I had with Tony was so different than what I have with Gibbs. My boss and I always had a mentor and student relationship. He relentlessly beat protocol into my head until I could repeat in a dead sleep. But Tony? We were more equals. Yeah, he outranked me, but it was different. When he left the agency, the decision was easy. I stayed with Gibbs because I _am _an agent. Tony wasn't. But now…

"Oh yeah." I tap my hand against my forehead. "Duh."

Tony tilts his head, studying me. "Yeah. Anyway, I ran point on the murders. I was acting SSA at the time. We ran down every lead, but the cases went cold due to lack of physical evidence."

"I see."

Tony still stares at me strangely. "The best forensics could tell, the wood is maple. It appears to be an American subspecies, but they couldn't narrow it down any further. We checked as many local antique stores and online vendors as we could. Apparently, they don't get many American chess sets. Did you know more sets didn't survive?"

I half-smile. "I do now."

Ellie glances up from her computer as though she just remembered we're here. She absently taps a pen against her neck. With a mouse click, she sends a new set of images to the plasma. The chess pieces are swapped for four photos of men in a variety of ages and ethnicities. Unsmiling faces with uniforms in front of an American flag. All official military photos.

"I looked though the European vics' profiles," she says. "There only common thread is the Navy. Well, except for Airman Richards."

"We assumed Richards was the anomaly," Tony offers. "He went missing from a bar where sailors hang out. We figured the Zoomie was mistaken for a seaman. Wrong place, wrong time."

"Wow, how terrible." Ellie pauses for a moment before continuing. "It looks like two vics were drugged while the others weren't. Three went missing from a bar while the other one had no known last whereabouts. All were on liberty in Europe in different port cities with American bases."

Tony holds up his hand. "Except for the Airman, he took leave to visit in Naples."

Sitting back in her chair, Ellie gnaws on the top of the pen. A pile of empty candy and chip wrappers lay beside her keyboard.

"There isn't any pattern," she says.

Tony starts, "Maybe there's a…"

Tony and Ellie spitball ideas between each other. Nick offers the occasional idea. I tune everyone out. Something doesn't seem quite right about thoughts about the lack of a pattern. I stare at the victims' pictures while I search for any common thread. One victim is African-American, one blonde, one Asian, and the Zoomie is dark-haired like our victim. Two are about my age, the other two considerably younger. They don't even look similar. I scrutinize the dates. Two murders within two weeks in Marseille. Six months later, two more murders within two weeks in Naples. And here we are, investigating a murder six months after Naples.

I speak up. "There isn't a pattern, but there _is _a pattern."

"How very Zen, Tim." Tony bows his head. "Namaste."

"Hear me out. The killer doesn't have a preference in appearance, but he chooses petty officers. So far, the killer has struck every six months for the past year. Two victims in two weeks. Six-month break. Another two victims in two weeks. Six month break…" I gesture as though to say, _And so on until we catch the bastard. _

Tony raises his eyebrows. "What falls on that kind of schedule?"

"Shore leave," Nick blurts out.

On reflex, I revert into Gibbs-mode. "Torres, take the European evidence to Kasie. Tell her to treat it as though it's brand new. I want everything redone. Bishop, try to figure out where the chess set came from. Tony – " I stop short, worried eyes drifting to my old friend.

Thankfully, Tony's smile is bemused. "Ah, my Probie has become the master."

Even though his expression is encouraging, I just can't bring myself to order Tony around.

He chuckles. "Lay it on me, McGrasshopper."

"Can you look into the ships our victims were on?" I trip over my words. "Maybe our killer is someone who was deployed with them. Then, can you review the personnel files again? In case…in case, something was missed."

Tony gives a mock salute, two fingers on his forehead and pointing at me. "Aye, aye, captain."

I lean back in my chair with a puff of relief. We _finally_ have a scrap of a lead, some way to narrow down our suspect. That triumphant moment only lasts a split-second before I dive back into my work. I quickly write a program to cross reference Navy ship deployment dates and crew lists with the murders. I barely get through the first lines of code when I notice Nick hasn't moves.

"Torres," I say, flatly. A warning.

His eyes meet mine. "Am I the only one who noticed we're on the clock now?"

I hold his gaze. Nick gestures at the pictures on the plasma as though I'm supposed to understand.

He huffs. "The victims come in pairs. Every two weeks. Sizemore turned up dead last week." He waves his hand at us, but no one says anything. He huffs again. "Two bodies every two weeks. That means we should expect another victim any day now. After that, this guy is going to ship out for another six months until he strikes again." He says what we're all thinking, "If he strikes again."

I feel myself pale. My mouth opens, but I'm not sure what to say. Seeming to have gotten whatever response he desired, Nick grabs the evidence and heads to the elevator. I try to focus on my code, but I feel someone else's stare boring into me. Tony watches me.

"You should call Gibbs," he says.

With a clipped nod, I retrieve my cell phone from my desk. I find Gibbs' number in the contacts, but I decide against calling him. I compose a text, but that doesn't come out quite right. I delete it. I start over again, but delete that one too. I should update him. I _know _I should. It is part of my job, but I can't bring myself to. The last time he buckled under job stress, I had to pull him off the case. When I tried discussing it with him, he lashed out and told me it was my choice to stay. He made it seem as though the last 16 years and every sacrifice I made—literally, giving him almost _everything_—meant nothing. If he pushes me again, I don't know how I'll respond. Honestly, I'd rather not find out.

I put the phone away.


	4. Chapter 4

With Tony back on the team, the world doesn't feel right. While it's the same, it is completely differently. I would say it feels like a disturbance in the Force; Tony would probably say a glitch in the Matrix. I am comfortable, dare I say, a little more relaxed than usual. I have someone I can rely on to help, not someone with a hair trigger that could explode with the slightest provocation. I never realized how much missed it until now.

I'm able to focus enough to write a few programs. Then, I babysit them while they run. My search uncovers two hundred sailors with corresponding shore leave in Naples, Marseille, and Norfolk. Ah, the short list. Running down each and every potential suspect's alibi will take weeks, if not months. Time we don't have with another potential victim in the coming days.

Nick stays in the forensics lab with Kasie. Every time I e-mail her about results, she shoots back Abby's old standby: "Science takes time, McGee. I'll call as soon as I have something."

Tony discovers there weren't any sailors on all of the victims' ships. He doesn't uncover any connections between the Airman and any of the other victims. With every passing out, he grows more frustrated. Still, he keeps digging and digging.

Just after 1700, the words on my computer monitor swim. The caffeine wore off hours ago and the last three cups of coffee had zero effect. I press my hands against my eyes, but everything on my screen still blurs together. I need sleep. I grab my backpack, ready to announce I'll be back by 0100 when Ellie laughs hysterically. When she throws her hands over her head, piles of candy and chip wrappers flutter around her like a tornado.

"Aha! I got it!" she shrieks.

"What have you got?" Tony asks.

My heart sinks as I lower myself back in the chair. I abandon my bag and any hope of going home.

Her grin is triumphant as she loads an image to the plasma. The scene is of a chess set dramatically displayed in the background. Rays of sunlight streak across the pieces that appear to be mid-game. In the background, a pair of Windsor chairs wait for players to return. Beyond them is an out of focus fireplace with a rolling fire and frost covered window.

Tony lets out a low whistle. "That's quite an artistic shot."

"Yeah, it is pretty." Ellie takes a moment to apprise the photo. "I found a few leads on the chess set. An online antique dealer in Ohio sold a similar one last year and California had one a few years ago. I'm just waiting for them to send me the details on who bought them. This one is from a website for a colonial museum in Hagerstown. The owner of the website took it down a while ago, but I was able to pull a cached image."

Tony looks at me for the geek-to-human translation. I decide not to get into the technicalities of how to uncover a cached image from a website. Keep It Simple, he used to tell me.

"Bishop found a copy of the picture saved on the internet," I explain.

Tony pales. "They can do that?"

I smirk, but I don't say anything. By now, I know Tony's act. He likes the Luddite bravado to downplay what he understands about computers. I never really knew why. Part of me always thought he wanted to leave me the computer work because he never enjoyed it. Another part always thought Tony needed to ensure I could explain our methods—what he liked to call voodoo—to a jury. I also am pretty sure he wanted to deny any involvement in my hacking. Not that I hack into anything. Nope, not ever.

Ignoring us, Ellie starts up again. "The museum is set up as a working colonial house so people can see how colonists lived in 1775. The chess set _was _part of the permanent collection until 2016."

I blink. "Was?"

"It was stolen during a burglary along with every other pieces." Ellie clicks through an inventory list. "A collection of silver spoons, a fireplace set, a silver candelabra and the chess set."

I make a face. "Should we assume the burglary case is cold?"

Her eyebrows jump. "This is where it gets good. It was reported to local PD, but the owners never followed up. Later, an undisclosed person tried to sell the silver spoons at Sotheby's in 2017. They were retuned to their rightful owner. When it was reported to the authorities, the museum owners withdrew their complaint from the police. I checked with Hagerstown PD and got a name."

She leaves me and Tony hanging for a long moment. Until now, I never realized Ellie had a penchant for dramatic presentation quite like Tony did.

"The museum is owned and operated by Jeremiah Pitts and his wife, Nora." She loads his DMV photo to the plasma. He is nearly Gibbs' age, square jawed and sour faced. "He is a former Army MP. He did his twenty and retired with a full military pension about 10 years ago. He and his wife have four kids. Two are active duty army, one Marine and one in the Navy. Three out of four have clean criminal records."

Tony leans forward onto his elbows. "Let me guess. The seaman has a record."

"Bingo, Tony! You win!"

"What do I win?" he asks cheekily.

She riffles through the pile of candy wrappers on her desk before turning up an uneaten KitKat. She looks at it as though bidding an old friend goodbye. Then, she chucks it at Tony with a quarterback throw. It whacks him dead in the chest and he fumbles to keep hold. He opens the wrapper, takes a bite, and grimaces. He sets it aside while muttering something about France and chocolate to himself.

Ellie's frown deepens as she forlornly stares at the candy bar. With a mouse-click, the photos are replaced with a mousey-looking man in dress whites. He has beady-eyes, light brown hair and a long nose. He is unassuming, entirely forgettable.

"Meet Seaman George Pitts, E-3," she announces. "He is 34 years old. He enlisted in the Navy straight out of college. He had a few juvenile criminal cases involving petty theft burglary and assault, but he managed to stay out of juvie. When he turned 18, those records were expunged. According to the Navy, he doesn't have a criminal record."

I sit back in my chair. "Unless you count a robbery your family won't pursue."

"If they didn't pursue, it didn't officially happen." She is back to chewing on that pen. "I reached out to Jeremiah Pitts, but he hung up on me."

"How nice of him," I say sarcastically.

Screwing her face up, she shrugs as though she is used to it by now. Tony is staring at the photos, his face deep in thought.

"Isn't George Pitts old to be a Seaman?" Tony asks. "Like, really old."

Ellie half-shrugs. "He keeps getting passed over for promotions to Petty Officer. He seems to just manage to avoid being discharged, but his conduct reports are not promising."

I quickly check my list of sailors on shore leave in the area of the murders. George Pitts is there. According to his official records, he was granted shore leave from Norfolk. While it is tenuous at best, it's the closest thing to a lead we have had.

"It sounds like we need to talk to George Pitts' dad about that chess set," Tony says.

I start to tell Ellie to grab Nick and head for Hagerstown and talk to Jeremiah Pitts in person.

Tony beats me to it.

"McGee. With me." His orders are on auto-pilot. "Bishop, find something to tie George Pitts to the murders. Tell Torres and your new forensics wizard to do the same. If it checks out, I want a warrant."

"On it," Ellie chimes.

With no other choice—Tony is in charge right now—I grab my gun and creds. I follow his purposeful strides to the elevator and we fall into the car together. We stand side-by-side, shoulders almost touching. In the brushed metal of the elevator door, we are mere outlines of ourselves. We could be any version of us from our thirteen years together. For a split second, it's as though Tony never left and moved halfway around the world.

And in that moment, I wish he never did.


	5. Chapter 5

The drive to Hagerstown is much slower than I expect. I forgot how terrible rush hour on the Beltway is because I haven't experience it in years. Typically, I leave for the office before the first commuter hits the highway and head home long after. On the GPS trip timer, the expected travel time agonizingly increases. An hour and a half balloons into an hour and forty-five minutes…then, two hours. My stomach sinks at the realization that I won't be home until after the twins' bedtime.

Delilah is going to kill me. _Again. _

Tony sits in the driver's seat, absently humming along with the old Rat Pack music on the AM radio station. He races an old white Ford Taurus through the gridlock. One moment, we lead by inches and the next, the Taurus blows past us in the stop and go traffic. Tony checks the sideview, the rearview to ensure the other driver hasn't turned into Mario Andretti at the Daytona 500.

I shoot Delilah a text, _It's going to be another late night, Dee. Don't wait up. _

Her reply is almost instantaneous, _I'll get Johnny and Morgan from daycare. It's fine. _

_I'm sorry, _I send.

Delilah doesn't respond. If anything, I know it's not fine, fine, _fine. _That's just a four-letter word Delilah throws between us. It allows us to keep moving forward, me with work and her with the kids. We're always too tired, too burned out, too busy, too _something _to talk about how not fine everything is. By now, I know she is tired of the apologies, the excuses, and my overwhelming absence. There is just always something keeping away from her, away from them. Paperwork, a network emergency, a national emergency, a dead body, covering for Gibbs. Maybe it's for the best. My father wasn't exactly Father of the Year when he was home. I don't know what I would do to the twins while they grow up.

Tony's voice interrupts my thoughts. "Was that Gibbs?"

I blink. "Huh?"

"Did Gibbs text you?"

Tony's eyes flick to the sideview mirror. After confirming the Taurus is behind us, his smile turns self-satisfied. His attention returns to me.

I shake my head. "I let Delilah know I couldn't pick up the twins. I haven't heard from Gibbs yet."

Suddenly, the Taurus overtakes us. Tony's features pinch, his eyes narrowing at the vehicle.

"Why are you lying to me, Tim?" Tony asks.

I recoil against the seat. "I'm not."

Tony keeps his eyes on the Taurus. "You never texted Gibbs with an update."

I stare out the window for a long time. On the radio, an old voice croons about flying to the moon. Sinatra, Tony's favorite. The Charger jerks along through traffic. Race forward a few inches. Slam on the brakes. Wait a few minutes. Start again. There isn't anything to look at here, just miles and miles of cars and a lonely, concrete wall at the edge of the highway.

"Why are you covering for him?" Tony finally asks.

"I'm not." My tone is firmer than I intend.

When I meet Tony's gaze, his expression is wounded. He clearly expected me to be straight with him. We are friends, were partners in the field. He always had my six like I had his. We aren't supposed to keep secrets from each other. Though, he never told me about being the EADEO.

Clearing my throat, I look away. "It's not like I'm trying to lie to you, Tony. It's just that Gibbs covered for me after Paraguay. I couldn't leave my apartment for weeks, let alone think about going back to work. He held my job and covered for me until I was ready to reenter the field."

Tony nods. "I remember…"

"Well, I thought Gibbs was doing okay—we all did—until recently. He started acting more erratic. I don't think he has been the same, but he hid it well. He was nice for a while."

Tony huffs. "Gibbs doesn't do nice."

I half-smile. "Tell me about it. It was a disaster. Then, he tried to act like himself and be a ballbuster again. Lately though, he just doesn't seem to be the man I remember."

Tony gestures for me to continue. I feel guilty discussing Gibbs with Tony. Even though we worked together for over a decade, I'm violating my boss' trust. However, I am certain I won't figure out how to fix the problem without consulting someone who "understands" Gibbs too.

I hug my arms to my chest. "A few months ago, Gibbs had a personal connection to a case. He never said anything until we figured out our victim was his former fiancée."

Suddenly, Tony slams on the brakes. We're several yards away from the car in front of us. Someone blares their horn, but Tony is too busy staring at me. His mouth hangs open, his face shocked.

"There was another one?" Tony gasps. "Are you kidding?"

I can't help smirking. "She would've been wife number two. Or would it have been number four? I can't keep track anymore, but that would take his total marriage count to five."

"Damn. What _was _I doing wrong?"

I decide to let that comment go. "I had to throw him off the case because he didn't disclose that information. He would've been a suspect until we cleared him. It could've blown the case."

"Jesus, the Probie grew a pair of brass ones." Tony lets out a low whistle. "And what the hell was Gibbs thinking?"

"I wish I knew. He ducked out a crime scene the other day. I'm not sure where he went, but I just found myself taking over. I didn't ask any questions because he did the same thing for me." I glance at Tony out of the corner of my eye. "Did you know there is a _ton _of paperwork for an SSA?"

Tony chuckles. "Yeah, I spent more time than I'd like to remember finishing up Gibbs' reports. It took me a long, _long _time to figure out that he was testing me."

I tilt my head. "Testing you?"

"I think he was trying to see if I was ready for my own team. He wanted to make sure all those head slaps taught me something." He rubs the back of his head. "I just didn't realize until it was too late."

"I don't follow."

"Shepard offered me a team in Rota after the Grenoiulle disaster." My mouth gapes as I whip around to face him. Tony holds his hand up to silence me. "In case you're wondering, I didn't take it because I didn't think I earned it. Being handed a team after working on a personal vendetta for the director just made me feel dirty. Not to mention, I thought Gibbs still needed me." The Charger pulls to a stop. Tony meets my surprised eyes. "I thought _you _still needed me."

I consider that time in our lives when I though knew everything, but I was still learning the ropes and earning my junior field agent status. You never know what you don't know until the moment you realize you don't know it. Tony was _everything _I hoped to be one day. Calm. Collected. Experienced. Able to stand up to Gibbs when the moment called for it.

"I did," I admit quietly.

"And so, I stayed." Tony nods, eyes back on the road. "Right or wrong, I made the choice."

That thought forms an unsettling pit in my stomach. My mind jumps back to the conversation in Gibbs' basement during the case involving his former fiancée. I kept asking—maybe, I was begging by then—for him to just tell me what was going on. I just needed to know why he felt compelled to hide something from me after all these years. He just held his ground and growled, "Your choice, McGee." And, in that moment, I knew it was a choice—a conscious decision I made every day—to remain by Gibbs' side.

I lean back in the passenger seat to consider the life choices to bring me here. Outside of the car, the world inches past us. The highway choked with traffic, the industrial sandstone block walls, the blazing sun reflecting off everything. My eyes close on their own and the stop-and-go movement rocks me to sleep for a split second. I blink awake, struggling to stay that way.

Tony adjusts the rearview. I bet he looks for the Taurus, which is several cars ahead now.

"Get some sleep," he says.

I stumble over the words. "I'm fine. I just – "

"Need to sleep," Tony interrupts. "You're not good to me if you can't stay awake for an interview. Look at what happened to Lightening McQueen when Mack was tired in _Cars." _

I laugh because I've seen that one. "Well, he wouldn't have met Sally or anyone in Radiator Springs if he hadn't gotten dumped on the highway. It changed his life for the better."

Tony should know that isn't a true argument, just a moment of solidarity from parent to another. Certain I won't be able to fight; I lean my seat back. Tony's voice, low and offkey, match the song on the radio about leaving my heart in San Francisco. The familiar comfort lulls me right to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't wake up until we reach Hagerstown. And even then, Tony punches my upper arm. I pop out of the seat as though I've been electrocuted. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and blink owlishly. We are parked at the end of a quiet-looking cul-de-sac. The houses are all cookie-cutter colonials with manufactured white siding and large fabricated windows with dark shutters reminiscent of the early 1990s. I rub my left temple, trying to drag my brain out of the _Skyrim _dream I was having.

"I thought Bishop said we were looking for a colonial." I look at the house again, realizing how stupid I sound. "Like an old colonial. A museum."

Tony grins. "I stopped there first, but it closed at 6."

I check my watch and groan loudly. Just before 6:30. I _should _be picking up the twins from daycare right about now instead of being several counties away.

"Tell me about it," Tony says. "It's after midnight for me."

Without another word, we both climb out of the car. Even though it's late, the air is hot and suffocating with a faint hint of rain. I bet I could wring it out like a sponge. Instantly, I am sweating.

Tony makes a strange face. Lips pursed, eyes half-lidded, nose wrinkled. Then, he gestures at his hair.

I just stare at him.

"You look like a hobo," he says.

I glance at my reflection in the car mirror. He is right. I look like a piece of evidence someone dug out of a dumpster. I smooth my hair as best I can and straighten my goatee. I am folding down my shirt collar when Tony nods approvingly.

"'_That'll do, donkey. That'll do,'" _Tony intones with a bad Scottish accent.

I know that one too. "_Shrek_, huh? I never thought you'd quote a cartoon in the field."

"I never thought _you _would recognize a movie quote. And yet, here we are." He quirks a smile. "Two today and they were cartoons."

"Touché."

"Don't touch me, McGee."

I reach for his shoulder, but he steps back, laughing. Then, he suddenly sobers up. "What do you think Jeremiah Pitts is trying to hide about his kid?"

"Hopefully, we'll find out."

We head up the perfectly paved driveway. The gleaming asphalt radiates the day's heat straight back at us. We move up the brick-lined walkway that cuts through the perfectly manicured lawn. There are flower beds, thick with flagging pansies and drooping rosebushes around the front porch. Beside the front door, there hangs a small sign reading _Welcome _in curly-cue script. I always love these houses because that sign never, _ever _applies to us.

Tony pounds on the door. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, badges already out.

It takes a few minutes—and two rounds of Tony knocking—for the door to open. A wave of air conditioning rolls out and for that, I'm surprisingly grateful. I doubt we'll be allowed inside to enjoy it. A hulking man with snow white hair appears annoyed. His muscles bulge as though his shirt can't contain him. He is tall enough to look me directly in the eye. If this is Jeremiah Pitts, he is far older than he looks.

"Jeremiah Pitts?" Tony asks.

Pitts doesn't even acknowledge us. He just stares right through us. So much for the welcome that little sign with the curly-cue handwriting promised. Figures.

The unflinching expression in his dark brown eyes sends a chill dancing down my spine. I recognize it from my own childhood. It's the same one my father would use to make me feel less than I was.

"I'll take that as a yes," Tony says, flipping open his badge. I copy the motion. "Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee, NCIS."

"I'm not dealing with you CSI people," the man growls.

Tony's face pinches. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service. We deal with Navy and Marine crimes."

"It's like I told that bit – "

"Agent Bishop," Tony snaps.

Pitts rears his head back, slightly baring his teeth. "What?"

"You spoke with Agent Bishop." Tony fights to control his emotion.

Pitts glares at us with a renewed energy. "It's like I told _that bitch _on the phone. I have nothing to say to you people. If you want to prove my son did something wrong, go fish."

He starts to close the door, but I jam my foot against it. He flexes his hands as though he might beat me to a pulp. I display my cell phone with a picture of the chess piece on the screen. Pitts chooses to stare into my eyes. He shoves the door harder against my foot. Christ, that hurts. I push my hip into it to help alleviate the pressure.

I speak through clenched teeth. "We found _this _in a storage locker on a destroyer." More pressure on the door, I clench my teeth tighter. "Chess piece. We're trying to return it. _Discreetly." _

There isn't any recognition on Pitts' face. Tony places his hand on my shoulder. Tries to tell me that up, that this interview isn't worth losing toes over. He gently pulls me back, but I shrug him off. The pain has migrated from my foot, slowly like insects creeping up my leg. I just can't let it go. It's the closest thing we have had to a lead since we found the body.

"I know what it's like," I blurt out.

Pitts eases up. Just barely. "About what?"

"To have a son who constantly disappoints you."

Acknowledgment flickers like fire in his eyes. Bingo. That's what I needed.

Beside me, Tony bristles. He shoots me a quick _What the hell are you doing? _look. I ignore him as I follow one of the rules Gibbs made up after Paraguay. Tell the suspect whatever they want to hear. Give them just enough, so they give you everything. I don't believe it; I don't follow it. Until now.

Tony seems to consider what I'm doing for a long moment. Then, he must trust my gut—or see what I'm trying to do—because, after a labored sigh, he plays along.

"What did Johnny do this time?" he asks.

"He wants to be a professional dancer." I bark a dark laugh, low and humorless. It's the best I can come up with the moment, but it's a little too true to life.

"A dancer, eh?" Tony asks.

"Yeah, I'm not sure where he got that crazy idea. The kid should stick to what he knows." I pull my lips into a line. "The Navy."

Tony's glance is so quick I barely catch it. His face is full of questions, but this sure as hell isn't the time or the place. He turns back to Pitts, who is nodding at me.

"I feel your pain, man," Pitts says. "I've got two boys who are Army Special Forces and one training to be a Marine sniper. Pretty badbass kids. And my oldest, George?" He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "First, he thought he would be a poet. He got a creative writing degree at Waverly, but he couldn't hack writing a book. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, the Army didn't want him. So he joins the freaking Navy."

Tony and I stare at him.

"No offense." He doesn't sound like he means it.

"None taken," Tony drawls.

Pitts _finally _opens the door all the way. The pressure on my foot releases, but it makes my whole leg throb with its own heartbeat. Sometimes, it's not the initial injury that hurts the worst, but your body's reaction at trying to heal. Those are some of the little things I wished I hadn't learned in Paraguay. I shift my weight to my other leg, trying to pretend like I'm unphased by what just happened.

Pitts maintains his rigid stance, one hand on the doorknob and the other loose by his side. At least, he no longer looks like he wants to beat the shit out of us.

He starts talking. "It's just that I have three boys representing the most elite ranks of the military, you know? Then, there's George." He glances at something on the street. "The Navy barely took him. He _could _have been a SEAL if he put forth any effort. But he's too damned lazy. Hell, he can't even get promoted past the rank of Ensign. I mean, is it really that _hard _to achieve Petty Officer?"

Tony and I share a quick glance. Tony's eyebrows are raised, his lips smashed together so tightly they appear fused. I half-nod. I know exactly what he's thinking. Yes, Jeremiah Pitts is a piece of work, but he just handed us our motive. An Ensign who can't get promoted past an entry rank with a father he'll never please is certainly a powerful one. While it's circumstantial, we can work backwards to prove it.

Tony slides a notepad from his jacket's breast pocket. He flips through a few pages until he finds one and makes a few notations.

Pitts' eyes darken. "What do you think – "

I grab his attention. "Wouldn't it be nice if our kids just knew what was good for them? Like we do."

Pitts turns back to me. "Yeah, it would be. George never listened so he never knew what was best."

"Look, we wanted to do this quietly." I display the picture of the chess piece on my phone again. "Does this look familiar at all?"

Taking my phone, Pitts scrutinizes the image. While his stance remains closed off, a torrent of emotions places across his face in a matter of seconds. His expression settles in disappointed. He bobs his head.

"A few years ago, George took them from the family museum." Pitts looks at me closely, as though he could be the Ghost of Christmas Future. "The museum is an important part of my—our—family's history. He stole everything that had any value. A few paintings, silver pieces, and that chess set."

Tony taps his pen against his notepad. "I thought everything was returned."

Pitts is still staring at the image on my phone. "Most of it was. George tried to auction the paintings and silver, but it was returned to us. We chose not to press charges. However, the chess set never turned up." He looks at me. "Is it complete?"

I shake my head. "We only found a few pieces, but I'll notify you when we find the rest."

"When can I get them back?"

"As soon as we wrap up our investigation," Tony offers.

Pitts steps onto the porch, crowding us. "What investigation? You two never said anything about an investigation."

"Contraband," I say easily. "We found the pieces along with alcohol and drugs on the ship. You know, boring Navy stuff like drunk sailors. That's about as exciting as things get for us."

Pitts seems satisfied with my explanation as though lowly NCIS agents could never deal with anything more involved than AWOL seamen, contraband, and koalas on submarines. Begrudgingly, he gives us an official statement. Yes, those are his chess pieces and he wants them back. But no, he doesn't know who took them. For as much as he is disappointed with his son, Pitts still won't accuse George of burglary.

"We'll get those pieces back to you as soon as we can," I say.

At the end, Pitts offers Tony and me a handshake. While it doesn't bother me, Tony acts as though Pitts' hand is covered in battery acid. As Pitts retreats to his house, Tony and I head back to the car in silence. We climb into the Charger. Instantly, I'm sweating. The heat inside is smothering and oppressive. After starting the car, Tony blasts the air conditioning. It helps, just barely.

"Damn." Tony hisses. "George Pitts is our guy, but we don't have enough for a warrant."

Biting my lower lip, I can't believe what I am going to suggest. "Should we have a stakeout? Once more for old time's sake?"

Tony grins. "Sound like fun. We could be like Cagney and Lacey, but the jetlag is catching up to me – " his expression turns wry as he appraises me " – and you don't look like you're doing much better. We should let Bishop and Torres pull the night shift."

"It sounds like a great time to pull rank." Chuckling, I grab my cell phone to call Ellie.

She answers on the first ring. _"Bishop." _

"Hey Bishop, it's McGee. I need you to find George Pitts and – "

_"Already done. Nick and I tracked him to a dive bar in Chinatown." _On the other end, I hear Nick talking, but I can't make it out. _"Nick says I shouldn't be allowed to pick stakeout snacks again." _

I take the bait. "What'd you bring?"

_"Salt and vinegar chips, veggie straws, pork rinds, string cheese, strawberry and – " _

"Geez, Bishop. That seems like a lot." I hear Nick protest incomprehensibly again. "Just tell Nick you can eat whatever you want as long as you find me something on George Pitts."

She tells him. More protesting.

_"He didn't like that."_

"Oh well. Just keep tabs on our suspect. Tony and I will relieve you at 07 – " Tony gives me the death glare " – actually, make that 0900."

_"Got it. Should we just bring George Pitts in?" _

"Only if he's doing something illegal." I sigh. "We don't have enough evidence on the murders yet."

_"Then let's hope he does something bad." _She laughs into the phone. "_Enjoy your night, McGee." _

I listen to the sound of chewing on the other end. "You too, Bishop."

At the end of the call, I hear Nick's grousing and the sound of crinkling plastic. I pocket my phone, thankful that I won't be stuck in a car with either of them all night. Leaning back into the seat, I sigh at the time on the clock. Even if Tony makes great time, we won't be back in DC until after the twins' bedtime. If I'm lucky, I might be able to share a few minutes with Delilah before she turns in.

Suddenly, I realize the Charger isn't moving. Instead of driving, Tony curiously studies me. Based on the look in his eyes, he is trying to discover some of my secrets.

"Tony?" I ask.

Eyes still on me, he tilts his head. "Were you talking about yourself back there?"

"I…uh…"I feel myself pale. "Stupid childhood dreams, huh? It's a lot easier to be a dancer if you don't have two left feet. If you're not a…" I get caught on the words, _klutz, nerd, and kid with an unsupportive father. _In the end, I force a smile.

"I don't think it's stupid," Tony says quietly.

I stare at him, slack-jawed. It takes a long moment to recover. Eventually, I laugh.

"Would you have let me live it down?" I ask.

"Probably not." Considering, Tony strokes his chin. "Though, I don't think I'm going to let you live it down now." He looks at me over his glasses. "McTwinkleToes."

"DiFourEyes," I shoot back.

The retort is pathetic and we both know it. We end up laughing like we used to. Co-conspirators. Partners. Friends.

"What did you want to be when you were little?" I ask.

"A cop." Tony half-smiles. "I was. Then, I wasn't. Then, I was close. Now, I am again. I'd like to think I ended up in the right place."

I soak up my friend's features. He is as confident and self-assured as I remember from his tenure as senior field agent. Except now, there is something slightly different. He seems to finally be at ease in his own skin. As though he _knows _he is where he's meant to be.

"I think you did too," I say.

Tony matches my smile as he puts the Charger in gear. Quietly, he hums a song that I recognize as _Grease Lightening. _It's more than a little offkey, but it sounds about right. I join in, surprised I know the melody, let alone the lyrics. We bother burst out into the song at the same time, laughing and singing the words in our own tone-deaf way. With anyone other than Tony, I would be embarrassed.

The song carries us to the highway while Tony drums his free hand on the steering wheel. I keep time by tapping my feet against the floor. It almost feels like dancing. By the end, we dissolve into peals of laughter.

I barely catch my breath. "I know why I know that song, Tony. Why do you?"

His face is that mask again. "I dated a woman in Philly who played Sandy in a local production. Once you hear that song, you kinda never forget it."

I half-smile. "Tell me about it."

"Where did you learn it?"

"MIT theater group."

Tony looks over, his face alight. "You were – "

"And that's all you get," I say definitively.

We drive in silence for several minutes. By the way Tony fiddles with the steering wheel, I can tell he is _dying _to ask me all about my time in MIT's drama club. It was a lot of fun until my father paid me a surprise visit during a production. I quit the same night. I don't like to talk about it.

Tony opens his mouth.

I beat him to the punch. "You know, I've been meaning to ask. Why are you still in the field?"

"Because this is my case and I _like _being in the field."

"Don't you have more important things to do?" Tony's _Like what? _expression spurns me onward. "Schmoozing politicians and diplomas? Reviewing other teams' reports? Harassing your SSAs for results like Vance does?"

Tony smirks. "I _am _SSA until I find someone crazy enough to work for me. For now, I'm working the cases while schmoozing the politicians and flying around in Vance's jet."

That makes me flinch. Tony's smirk blooms into a full smile.

"You haven't found someone yet?" I ask.

"I was given 6 months to figure it out." His grin quickly evaporates into nothingness. "I've got three weeks before Vance picks for me."

My eyes are on the road ahead. Traffic is growing steadily thicker. "How hard can it be to find an SSA?"

"Not hard." Tony sucks his breath through his teeth. "Unless you have someone in mind."

I swivel to face him. His face is in profile, days old stubbles claiming the lower half. The last wisps of sunlight reflect off his glasses. His jaw is tight like a spring. His fingers tight around the steering wheel. He grips it harder.

"Have you asked them yet? You should – " I shut the hell up when Tony looks over. His expression is expectant and then, just as quickly, it's gone. Everything sinks in. "Oh." It sinks in a little deeper. "_Oh." _

My eyes skirt back to the world outside. Green fields stretch out towards the horizon where they kiss the sky. The sun is setting now, a blazing orange ball lurking just above the hills. Houses appear intermittently as though sprinkled on the landscape.

The word _no _rises on my tongue. It's on reflex. A knee-jerk reaction with no thought or feeling behind it. Everything that happened today—working with Tony on a case again, the walk down memory lane—was just a memory. Just a chance to enjoy what used to be, glance into a what could have been. I work with Gibbs and in a way, that's where I'm meant to be. At least, that's how it used to feel.

I try to force the word out.

No. No. _No. _

It should be easy enough to say. I say it to the twins all the time. But right now, my mouth feels as though it's full of sand. The word hangs on my tongue, uninvited and unwilling to leave.

Tony must realize it too because his body goes rigid. His knuckles are ghost-white against the black steering wheel. He holds up a hand before I manage to say it—_no. _

"I don't accept your answer." His tone is simple; there isn't any argument.

I blanch. "What?"

"I'll accept your answer after you talk to Delilah."


	7. Chapter 7

The trip back to Washington doesn't go as smooth as expected. A ten car pile-up shuts down the Beltway in both directions. The detour back to Washington leaves the side roads snarled with traffic. I anxiously watch the minutes on the dashboard clock slip past like hours. The later it gets, the more I lose hope of spending any time with my family. The official Fielding-McGee dinner time—I am rarely there for that—comes and goes. Then, the twins' bedtime passes. Eventually, it nears Delilah's bedtime.

Tony and I grab dinner at a Beltway Burger. Despite the late hour, the restaurant is packed with other wayward motorists. A French fry oasis in the middle of a parking lot desert. We share an awkward conversation. The job offer looms, a grenade ready to burst. We skirt, cautious and careful around it. I'm desperate to ask for details while certain I should turn it down. Instead, we discuss Delilah and the twins, Tony's life in France with Tali and his dad, and my next book. Not that I'm even drafting right now. Just plotting, but it's good to talk out the story's kinks.

A part of me knows I should just get it over with. I should turn down Tony's job offer. I should tell him I'm happy—settled, is probably a better word—in Washington.

In fact, I do try. We are in the middle of burgers and talking about how Bishop never quite kicked her three candy bars a day habit. I start to say, "No." Tony just says, "Delilah first" and takes his garbage to the nearest trashcan. I am left, reeling.

We don't talk for the rest of the drive. It's almost 2300 when Tony drops me off at the apartment. I stand on the sidewalk, one hand on the car door and hoisting my go-bag over my shoulder.

Squinting at the clock, Tony frowns. "See you at 0800, Tim."

"I'll be ready," I promise.

After mumbling what might be goodnight, Tony stifles a yawn into the back of his hand. I doubt he even knows what time zone he's in, let alone what time it is. With the jetlag, he has been up all night….and day. He looks exhausted, so I don't keep him. I shut the car door and wave. If he waves back, the darkness swallows it. Seconds later, the Charger roars down the street. I watch the taillights vanish when Tony heads towards his hotel.

I linger by the building entrance to collect my thoughts. The is a quiet din of distant traffic, the rustle of leaves on the breeze. The late-night air is still chokingly thick from the summer heat. It's peaceful. Right now, there is no case, no one waiting for an order, no one demanding results. There are no screaming toddlers and no wife upset that I'm late again. It is just me and the night. I hate to admit I feel like a ghost most days. A person who haunts the space between my family and work. After those two things, there isn't much left of me. Often, I wonder if I lost more than just time in Paraguay.

After taking a steadying breath, I open the heavy entrance door. The pale moonlight winks at my reflection, a blue glint before it vanishes. I meander through the lobby. Overhead, the ornate gold-plated chandelier bathes the whole space in a bright, striking glow. I move past the mailboxes with their gold doors cut into the wall, the Art Deco chairs arranged into a conversation area, and the empty mahogany desk by the elevators. Thankfully, the doorman went off duty at 2300. Otherwise, I would have to rehash my work with the old man to let him vicariously relive his glory days.

The elevator ride is quick and a few moments later, I head into my apartment. Inside, it is dark except for the small, green-shaded lamp on my writing desk. I drop my backpack by the door and lock my gun in the safe on the bookshelves. I complete this routine so often that I could do it in the pitch dark.

I head straight for the bedroom. There, I pause in the doorway to watch Delilah sleep. She lays half on her side, arms reaching for my side of the bed. Her dark hair is splayed against the blue pillowcase; her broken legs stretched beneath her like an afterthought. She looks like a painting by an old master, an accidental Renaissance caught in modern times.

My heart summersaults in my chest. I dreamed of these moments when I was in Paraguay. They were worse than any torture I ever endured. Seeing those snippets of domesticity, those scraps of what made me human while being treated like an animal.

Suddenly, I can't bear to be apart from her any longer. I hustle across our bedroom and slide into our bed, still fully clothed. Sportscoat, dress shoes and all.

Gently and delicately, I move her hands to make enough space for me. I ease my body next to hers, but I keep hold of her hands. Her fingers are soft and warm. Sometimes, I need to remind myself that she is real. Flesh and blood and bone, not a longing dream from some rebel ship a world away.

Delilah startles, her breath hitching. I hold my own, praying I didn't wake her.

She sighs quietly. "Tim?"

"It's just me, Delilah. Were you expecting someone else?" It's supposed to be a joke, but it doesn't come out quite right.

"It's just that…" Wide awake now, she pulls herself up. "Hi."

Rolling to my side, I prop my head on my hand. "Hi yourself."

She studies me in the lowlight. Her eyes wide and full, beautiful. I take one of her hands in mine, interlacing our fingers. I kiss the back of her hand. She smiles.

"How were the twins?" I ask.

"As good as to be expected." She snorts. "They figured out how to open the fridge door. Then, they decided it would be a good toybox. Johnny kept trying to climb inside and Morgan wanted to close the door on him. That was fun while I was making dinner."

I laugh. "I bet. At least, they're working together."

Delilah's smile broadens. "It is better than fighting like they usually do."

"How was the rest of your night?" I ask.

She stays quiet for a long time. I don't mind the silence. After hours of talking to Tony and the radio and the bustle of the office, it's quite soothing. Just the two of us and the sound of our breathing. I lie there, half adrift in sleep, studying her beautiful face in the low light. Her mouth turns drawn as she flicks her eyes away from mine.

"Is something wrong, Dee?" I whisper.

"It's nothing," she says.

I force myself to sit up. "It's something. What is it?"

"Nothing." Her voice is strained. "It isn't important. Really."

Her words. Her tone. While it isn't often, I can always tell she's lying.

I take her hand again. "We can't fix it, if I don't know what's wrong."

Her body stiffens under my touch.

"Just tell me, Dee." A moment later, I exhaustedly add: "Please."

Something that might be a cry catches in her throat. "The twins ask every night, 'When does Daddy get home?' Every single night that you aren't here, they ask. They ask about a gazillion times. And tonight…" Her voice trails off, wide eyes searching mine.

Raising my eyebrows, I implore her to continue.

She squeezes my hand. "Tonight, they didn't ask."

And suddenly, I feel as though I'm drowning on dry land. There is an ache in my chest, a deep gnawing pain that I can't reach. I try to breath, but my lungs don't work. I remember my own childhood and the relief I felt when my own father shipped out. Could my kids be starting to feel the same way about me?

I drop Delilah's hand as I bolt upright. I end up sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees and hands scrubbing my face. I am wide awake now. I hear Delilah drag herself beside me. She awkwardly contorts her useless legs so she can reach me better. She only manages to snake her arms around my upper body. She clings to me and I clutch her hands tightly.

She is talking quickly. "Johnny and Morgan were really excited about putting their blocks and stuffed animals in the vegetable drawer. Morgan thinks we should keep her play food in there. You know, with our real food. And then – "

"Do you think…" I choke it out. "Do you think they're happy I'm not here?"

"You're their dad. They _want _you here." She rears back. "Why would you even ask that?"

I push a breath through my teeth. "My father and I…it was complicated."

"I know." I feel her sigh. "I think they just accepted you aren't around much."

I suddenly feel defensive. "_I am_. I have to – "

"Work, I know." I start to speak again, but she grips my shoulder, _hard_. I still under her touch. "Believe me, I know how important your job is. Johnny and Morgan just aren't old enough to understand yet. I mean, you almost missed Christmas this year."

I inhale. "It was a case. We were reuniting a baby with his family."

"I know, but there's always a case or something at work. Or Gibbs needs you for something." She makes a strange noise and I think she might be crying. "I won't talk about Paraguay because we promised not to. But you canceled our anniversary vacation to follow a lead. I don't know what you were doing, but ever since, my MaryBeth devices have this weird warning." She sort of laughs because saying in a robotic voice, "'Please confirm that you are not NCIS Agent Timothy Farragut McGee before proceeding. I didn't even know you had a middle name until then."

I wince that the company, Splendifida, knew the middle name I dropped decades ago. I never told Delilah about _that_ covert mission—national security protocols and all. And now, she is the only one who can control our TV, tablets, and voice control devices. While she enjoys have the final say in our entertainment, I may have overstepped.

"I…it's just…" I struggle to find the words. I fail miserably. "Work needed me."

I feel her nod. "I think sometimes you forget your family does too."

I don't even know what to say. I steeple my hands together and press them against my lips. A visceral pain works its way into my chest, that gnawing melts into agony now. Everything I felt when I was growing up comes flooding back to me. The excitement at my father's deployments, the disappointment when he actually did show up for something. He always had other obligations, other things more important than my sister and me. A deployment, a meeting, a work trip. I never minded. I never cared. It made me happy, relieved in a way.

I never thought history could repeat itself. Not with me and my own kids.

Delilah presses her body deeper against my back. Her warmth soaks though the layers of my clothing. She might as well be on fire, but she doesn't heat my chilled core.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

She kisses my neck. "It's okay. I understand."

Delilah slowly backs away as though accepting things will never change. As though we are doomed to repeat the same cycle my family was trapped in while I grew up.

She readjusts her legs as she slides back to her side. I turn around to watch her. She jerks the blankets around her again. We are mere inches apart, but it feels like a chasm, miles wide and just as keep. I know we are drifting apart, that I am losing them. I am so afraid that I'll be like my father that I forgot half of life is just showing up.

She catches me staring. The look on her face begs me to say something. Maybe she only expects something as simple as _I love you and good night _or _I'll try harder. _

"Tony offered me a job," I blurt out. More desperately than I intended.

Delilah leans back against the wood headboard. She squints as though she is trying to decipher me in the darkness. I swivel to face her, one leg curled up on the bed. Her hands rest on her own.

"Why didn't you tell me Tony was in town?" She sounds slightly hurt at being left out.

"I just found out this morning. He shows up at work this morning to help on a case. He's the Assistant Director of European Operations. It's kind of a long story." She doesn't ask and I don't extrapolate. "He offered me a job as an SSA. I'd get my own team with less cases and more down time."

For the first time tonight, her expression turns hopeful. "That would be amazing for your career and us. What's the catch?"

"The position is in Marseille. We'd have to move to France."

Her shoulders slouch. "I assume you turned it down."

"Not yet. Tony wanted me to talk to you first." I look at her helplessly. "Even if I wanted it, I don't know how we would do it."

"We would make it work like we always do."

I feel a flicker of surprise. "What about your job?"

Delilah rests her head against the headboard. "I've been wanting to cut back at work for a while now. I can't keep doing the 60-hour weeks. The twins are growing up so fast. I want to spend more time with them. I could probably do some consulting for the DoD or see if I can take a remote position."

I stare at her, dumbfounded that she would consider moving our family across the Atlantic.

"What about your mother? She just moved her last year."

She shrugs with one shoulder, half-smiling. "My mom would figure out how to follow us to France. Though, I doubt you would mind if she were still here."

I try to hide my smirk. Delilah knows me all too well. While my mother-in-law can be a blessing, there are times—okay, most of the time—when I wouldn't mind if she moved back to Wisconsin.

It's her turn to ask. "Do you think you could ever leave Gibbs?"

I answer as honestly as I can. "I don't know, Dee. Gibbs and I have been partners for a long time. I don't even know what he is going through right now. I think our ordeal just hit him."

My stomach is in knots at the thought of it. In Paraguay, we only had each other. Our survival hinged on the other's every move, every breath. I'm not sure we ever learned how to separate our time together with our time here. Thankfully, Delilah never asks about the months we spent there. She only saw the true extent of my captivity once. Right after I got back, she caught me coming out of the shower. I think she may have forgotten I was home. She saw the fresh and healing bruises, the raw electric burns, the jutting ribs and joint bones from malnutrition. She kissed each and every spot while she silently sobbed. Then, she held me while I did too. It was enough to help me heal and it still is. However, sometimes the lines blur and I forget who I need more. The love of my life or the boss who's like a father.

She shifts towards me again. The mattress bobbing under her weight returns me to the present. Even the short distance is difficult for her. Her legs get tangled and twisted in the sheets. I move everything and close the distance between us. We lie together, her head on my shoulder and arms wrapped tightly around each other. Her fingers find the deep rope scars on my right wrist. I try so hard to keep them covered, to hide them from her. Yet, I let her touch them. The caress of her thumb is soft and gentle, a beat of a butterfly wing.

Our eyes meet. Hers are deep enough to drown in. Every night I fell asleep on that forsaken boat, I always dreamed for this. Now that I have it, I am taking it for granted.

"What should I do?" I whisper.

She places her hand against my cheek. "That's your choice. Some distance might help you and Gibbs heal. I think you need to save yourself before you can save Gibbs."

I close my eyes. "I love you more than anything."

"0100110." Our standard code for _I love you too. _"I support whatever decision you make."

I have no idea what to say. _Yes, let's pack up our family and take our kids from the only home they know. _Or _No, I'll stay here and keep working until none of you remember me. _

How do I move our family halfway around the world? Then, again, there is Gibbs. How can I abandon the man who became a surrogate father to me? The man who protected my life with his own in Paraguay?

I draw Delilah against my chest, clutching her as though I'll never let her go. My entire body is freezing and I feel like I'll never be warm again. I feel her weight in my arms, the smoothness of her skin beneath my fingers, the rise and fall of her chest. In my arms, she surrenders to sleep.

I am left alone with my choices.


	8. Chapter 8

A sudden screech rips me straight out of a dead sleep. Before I'm even completely awake, I am lunging after cell phone, so it doesn't wake Delilah. I slam my hand against an empty spot on the nightstand. It blares again. I snatch it up and silence the call. I stare at the screen for a long moment. It's a picture of Tony from Christmas with a Santa hat and goofy grin.

I take a quick stock of the bedroom. Delilah's side of the bed is empty, her wheelchair gone. Morning light filters through the blackout curtains. The whole apartment is silent…which only happens when everyone else is gone.

And if Tony's already calling, that means…

Oh shit. I overslept.

Pressing my hand against my eyes, I accept Tony's call. The cuff of my sportscoat scratches my cheek. I'm still in yesterday's suit. This is great. Just freaking great.

"McGee," I say.

Tony's voice replies, _"Hey Tim. I'm here." _

I survey my clothes and sigh. "I'm going to be a few minutes."

_"I figured." _He laughs and then, he's gone.

I fly through the apartment as I get ready. A five-minute shower, brushed teeth, and different suit later and I look like a whole new man. I don't worry about breakfast because Tony and I will probably grab something on our way to the stakeout. Nothing makes the time go faster than eating.

I rush to the bookshelves to retrieve my gun from the safe. Sitting on top, there are two breakfast sandwiches, still warm, wrapped in wax paper. A note in Delilah's perfect, block script reads:

_T, One for you and one for Tony. Coffee is in the kitchen. Go get 'em, Tiger. _

_Love you, D. PS – Tell Tony I expect a visit._

The note makes me grin. Inexplicably, she loves that line for Spiderman. The Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst version, not the newer reboots. Don't tell Tony, but those are her favorites. I never cared for superhero moves, but she does. Since she controls our television time, I have seen them all. Please don't ask about the difference between the DC and Marvel universes because she can talk about it for hours. In some ways, she is as bad as Tony.

After moving the food to the side, I free my gun from the safe. A quick jaunt to the kitchen to fill two travel mugs with coffee. I'm already late, so I fix Tony's coffee just the way he likes it. Extra sugar with extra half and half like atherosclerosis doesn't exist. Then, I rush out the door while juggling the travel mugs and sandwiches. Locking the door is a feat, but I make it to the lobby without dropping anything or scorching myself. As soon as the elevator doors open, a familiar voice carries.

"…when I learned the gendarme wasn't just a bunch of Jacques Clouseaus."

There's a low murmuring from an eager listener. I round the corner to find Tony standing next to the doorman's desk. Old Bertram sits at his desk, neck craned as Tony regals him with a story. As soon as he sees me, he further perks up. For how old he is—likely in his 80s—I have never seen him so animated.

"Say, Mr. McGee, look who I found!" Grinning, Bertram gestures as Tony as though I haven't seen him. "It's Mr. DiNozzo! Can you believe it?"

Tony easily leans against the desk. "I was just telling Bertram about Paris."

"I heard," I say, nodding. "Have you been there, Bert?"

"Those used to be the days. Jetsetting off to some foreign city to…" At that, Bertram's laid-back demeanor changes into something else. Those huge eyes behind his glasses shift warily between the two of us. "If you boys will excuse me…"

I glance at Tony, who shrugs. We head across the lobby towards the doors without speaking. Despite our years in law enforcement, we have never been able to track down Bertram's life before becoming doorman to our building. Despite his age, he officially doesn't exist before the year 1996. Tony's working theory is Bertram used to be a CIA agent or is in witness protection, but I think he has seen one too many movies. We probably just aren't spelling his last name right.

Outside, the sun shines brightly. I wish I hadn't left my sunglasses back in the apartment.

Tony gives a heavy sniff. "Why do I smell coffee?"

"Because I have some," I say, laughing. "And Delilah made us breakfast."

Tony takes his drink and sandwich. "I should come visit more often."

"She says you owe her a visit."

"If she's cooking, I'll be here every day. My dad tries to handle it when he's in town." He sips his coffee, frowning at some thought.

"And?" I ask.

Tony half-shrugs. "He _tries_."

We meander down the block to where Tony parked the car. I lean against the passenger side door. The metal is already baking, reflecting the early day's heat back at me. Tony remains on the sidewalk, facing me. The sunlight highlights the dark bags underneath his eyes and the sallow glint to his cheeks. In some unspoken agreement, we inhale our breakfast and coffee.

Tony catches me staring.

"Jetlag," he explains. "I've been up since 2:30."

I offer him the last of my coffee, which he readily accepts. He takes a sip and flinches violently. Then, he downs the remnants and passes me the travel mug.

"Damn, Tim," he says. "How do you drink it like that?"

I shrug. "If you drink it fast enough, you don't even taste it."

"Yeah, it tastes better in France." His voice trails off as though he didn't mean to bring it up.

The offer to leave behind my whole life here, but my chance to set my own course professionally. I have Delilah's support and blessing. The choice is mine and mine alone.

I quickly change the subject. "Have you talked to Bishop yet?"

He won't look at me. "I figured you could do the honors."

I start to pull out my cell phone, but I pause. Tony stares blankly at the morning musings across the street. The city dwellers milling about, the joggers and parents with strollers and the people walking their dogs. If I didn't know better, I would say he looks disappointed.

"I'm still considering it." I trip over my words. "The offer. Delilah says we should, but I don't know yet."

He nods without looking back. "You tell me when you make up your mind."

When I call Ellie, she answers on the first ring. _"Hey McGee. How was your night?" _

"Fine. I got some sleep," I say, chuckling. "Tony and I are headed to relieve you. What's your location?"

_"NCIS." _

"What?" I ask

_"Didn't Nick call you?" _

I meet Tony's questioning gaze. "Uh, no. Why?"

_"We arrested George Pitts at 0230. We saw him leaving a bar with a petty officer. So we picked them up after he ran a stop sign. They said they were going to go somewhere to 'have fun.' Though I think their definitions of fun were likely different." _She clears her throat. _"We found his kill bag and a chess piece in the trunk of his car. Slam dunk, huh?" _

"Yeah, it sounds like it." Tony tilts his head. I cover the mouthpiece and say to him, "Bishop and Torres arrested George Pitts in the middle of an abduction last night."

"Why didn't they call us?" he asks.

"Good question." I turn back to the phone. "Why didn't you contact us, Bishop?"

_"Nick said he would." _I hear a rustling on the other end. _"Hey Torres, you never called McGee and DiNozzo about the arrest. What gives?" _

A moment later, I hear Torres say, _"Tell him that he and Tony needed their beauty sleep." _

Ellie gasps. _"I'm not telling him that!" _

As they delve into a squabble, I snap, "Hey! Hey! Someone needs to notify Gibbs."

_"That's a great idea," _Ellie says. _"Thanks for doing handling it, McGee. We've got an interrogation to handle. Tell Gibbs we've got everything under control." _And with that, the line goes dead. I don't think they really do, but I leave them to it.

Cringing, I pocket my phone. I mentally draft a text to Gibbs, but it doesn't come out quite right. _Hey boss, guess what. Ellie and Nick caught a serial killer while I was home sleeping. And oh yeah, Tony is back! _I doubt the phone call would be much better.

Tony keenly watches me, an expert in Tim McGee after all these years. He knows I'm floundering, but he has the grace not to say it. I updated him on the case while he nods, head tilting and listening. At the end of the summary, he murmurs, "Hm, that was easier than I expected."

"Yeah, except we get to tell Gibbs."

Tony's features pinch at the mere mention of our former boss' name. It makes him look callous and exhausted, nothing like Tony. I motion for the car keys; he relinquishes them without a fight. Since rush hour is over, it doesn't take long to reach Gibbs' house. I park the Charger against the curb. I begin to climb out of the car, but I notice Tony's seat belt is still clipped.

"Am I supposed to feel weird?" he whispers.

I press my lips together. "Have you spoken since you left?"

Tony shakes his head. "Not a word."

I stare at Gibbs' Craftsman. With its faded paint and empty porch, it appears rundown and forgotten. Foreboding, in a way. Picture-perfect in mid-century suburbia that never caught up with modern times. I feel a chill glide down my spine. Suddenly, I understand Tony's reluctance.

I start, "Would you rather – "

"No, I'm coming."

And with a set of his jaw, he hops out of the car before I do. He stalks across the lawn. I hustle to keep up, the grass laps at my ankles. As we climb the porch steps, they sag under our weight. The paintwork around the front door is patchy. A faded dingy beige surrounds the top portion while a brighter, new coat of the identical color lines the sides. An obvious work in progress. It wasn't like that when I last visited a few weeks ago.

Tony jiggles the front door. It isn't locked; it never is. Inside, the air conditioning runs, but it's still uncomfortably warm. Muggy and stuffy as though the house hasn't felt fresh air in years. The scent of fresh coffee wafts. The television plays a black and white western on mute. A stagecoach races across the screen, puffs of dust clouding behind it. Sunlight spills through the now-clean windows, showcasing the tidied interior. I stop in my tracks. Gibbs never opens the blinds, let alone attacks the clutter.

Tony studies the black sectional. "Gibbs has a new couch…"

"He got it right after you left," I offer. "So not exactly new."

"New to me." He bares his teeth in a sort of smile.

We head past the Formica kitchen table with its mismatched chairs. We are silent and reverent as though we are in church. In the kitchen, an open box of cereal sits on the counter. Shredded Wheat. No muss, no fuss, all Gibbs. A bowl and spoon, still dripping, sit in the drying rack.

When we arrive at the basement door, Tony allows me to lead. I open the door and announce myself. After all the bloodshed this basement has seen, Gibbs built a sniper's nest into his work bench.

"Boss, it's McGee."

Even though we don't get a response, Tony and I head down the stairs. The basement is, surprisingly, well-lit and inviting. The last time I was here—only a few weeks ago—I had to squint just to see Gibbs' face in the near dark. Now, new track lighting graces the ceiling. It makes the whole space appear homey and welcoming. I never noticed just how _big _it is. The work benches are neat, their tools stowed away. Just as always, a partially constructed boat hull takes up most of the available space. A half-full coffee mug rests on the floor beside it.

Dumbfounded, I pause on the landing. Tony stops short, nearly knocking us both down the stairs. He is as rigid as a statue and as pale as death. I can't hear him breathing; I'm not sure whether he still is. His expression is shock and raw fear as though just awakening from a bad dream.

I try again. "Boss?"

Leroy Jethro Gibbs' head pops out from behind the boat hull. A moment later, the rest of his body appears. He in at ease in his NIS shirt and his worn to death jeans. Behind his right ear is a pencil stub, a piece of sandpaper clutched in his hands. He brushes his bare arms, knocking a fine dusting of wood particles loose. He looks nothing like I expected. He is relaxed and calm and _sober. _

"Gibbs?" I whisper.

"Hey McGee." His eyes flit to Tony. "Hey DiNozzo."

I expect to share a curious glance with Tony, but he doesn't look at me. Instead, his shocked expression slowly morphs into one of anger. His glare is fixed on Gibbs, who calmly removes his safety glasses.

"Tony." Gibbs' voice is as careful as a hostage negotiator.

"Is that it, Gibbs?" Tony growls. "Is that all you have to say to me? 'Hey DiNozzo.' You ignore me for three years and now…._now_, you want to act like nothing happened?"

Gibbs deliberately presses his lips together. A swallow, a tasting of some words on his tongue. It is the only insight he offers. The action makes Tony ball his hands into fists before scrubbing them across his face. He almost knocks his glasses clean off. He pulls a breath through his teeth.

"How many e-mails did I send?" Tony continues. "How often did I write you? Did you even read them?"

Gibbs remains stone-faced.

"Two hundred and eighty-six." Tony sighs as though Gibbs is a lost cause. "Two. Hundred. And. Eighty. Six. I told you everything that happened with me. With Tali. It was like writing a letter to the void, but I kept doing it because I thought maybe, _just maybe, _you might respond. Even once."

By now, I feel more awkward than I ever have. I'm desperately trying not to eavesdrop. Yet with Tony beside me, I can't escape without trying attention to myself. So I study the wood stairs and ponder the age old question of just how Gibbs gets those boats out of his basement.

Tony is still going. His face turns red; his body rigid. "You couldn't write a single e-mail. You never called. You didn't even send a Christmas card. It was like I stopped existing after I left the team."

If I didn't know better, I might say Gibbs appears humbled. Perhaps even slightly sad. I think I have seen him express those emotions, but I've never really been sure.

Tony takes a deep breath. Gibbs' continued silence only enrages Tony more.

"And maybe I did before I even left," he says. "I stopped being useful to you. Then when you didn't need me anymore, you just – " he wipes his hands together " – let me go. That was it. Fifteen years, Gibbs. I did everything you asked—and a lot you didn't—for fifteen years. I trusted you with my career, my life. Everything. I trusted you with everything. And once we were done, that was it." He wipes his hands together as though shucking imaginary dirt away.

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. "What did you want, DiNozzo? A pen-pal?"

"Something, Gibbs. I would have taken _anything_." Tony's laugh is dry and humorless. "Hell, even a goodbye and good luck would have been nice. I got nothing from you. Nothing."

"I don't say goodbye, Tony." Gibbs turns back to the boat.

"More like you can't be bothered." Tony starts up the stairs. Over his shoulder, he throws to me, "I'll be in the car, Tim. Take your time."

Tony is nearly at the top of the stairs when Gibbs slams his fists against the boat hull. The sound resonates through us like a gunshot. Tony stops mid-stride, I nearly jump out of my skin.

"I say goodbye to the dead!" Gibbs yells.

Tony swivels around, hand on the railing and eyes on Gibbs. His expression is impassive and angry. He tilts his head just enough to show Gibbs he is listening. I don't dare to breathe so I don't get roped into this conversation. I pretend to be part of the wall. They seem to have forgotten that I'm even here.

"Everyone I said goodbye to is dead. Shannon and Kelly." Gibbs is counting on his fingers now. "Kate. Paula Cassidy. Mike. Dornegat. Diane. Ziva. I said goodbye and look at them! They're dead! They're all _dead!" _He whirls around, his eyes wild. "Do you think I wanted that for you?"

Tony closes his eyes. "I don't know anymore."

The moment of silence seems to stretch forever. I fiddle with my wedding ring, trying my best not to stare at Gibbs and Tony. I feel like a voyeur, stumbling into the most intimate moment of their lives.

"Jesus, no." Gibbs heaves a sigh. "Everyone I care about dies. You escaped, Tony. I can still protect McGee, but I didn't want it to remember you. I didn't want it to find you. You deserve to live…"

And that's the moment, I learn Gibbs is a superstitious man. With his rules and his gut, he attempts to abide by some unseen code I can't fathom. As though there could be some cosmic score to settle. Catch enough murderers and it'll keep the people he loves about safe. I just don't understand. I can't…

Tony starts, "Gibbs…"

"You and McGee are like my sons, Tony. You're my family." His glistening eyes search our faces before wandering away. "I didn't say anything when you left because I didn't know what to say. I made a mistake by not saying, 'see you around.'" He rakes his hand through his hair. Wood dust falls like a blizzard. "I shouldn't have kept you on the team for long. I never knew how to tell you."

Tony's brow pinches. "What?"

"Look at everything you've accomplished since you left." Gibbs smiles sadly. "You're a damned good father. A great agent. Assistant Director."

"Of European Operations," Tony clarifies modestly. "It's not that – "

"It's exciting," Gibbs finishes for him. "It's great. I held you back. I'm sorry."

Tony holds his hands up, seemingly too flabbergasted to follow the sudden turn in conversation.

"Am I hallucinating?" he gasps. "Or did you just apologize?"

Gibbs chuckles. "I'm trying something new. Therapist's orders."

"How's it working out for you?"

"I don't know, Tony. You tell me."

Tony presses his lips together. "Too little, too late. But…"

The entire world hangs onto that moment. It feels as though the room holds its breath and I barely notice that I am too. Gibbs attempts a smile, but it comes as a grimace.

"Can we try?" he asks.

Tony half-nods. "We can."

With that, Tony heads down the stairs. On his way, he claps his hand against my shoulder as though to thank me for being there. Thank me for the moral support. I smile at him. He matches it, hesitant and cautious. Like he has no idea what he is walking into it. At first, he offers Gibbs a handshake. Instead, Gibbs pulls Tony into a giant bear hug. There is whispering between them, words I can't make out because they are not meant for me. When they move apart, Tony's exquisite suit is covered in a fine sheen of wood dust. He doesn't bother to sweep it away.

"I know why you two are here," Gibbs says flatly.

That's my cue to spring to life. "I have an update on our case. Apparently, our serial killer had ties to Marseille and Tony…" When I gesture at him, he holds his hands in a _Ta-da _motion. "Then, Bishop and Torres picked up our suspect last night. He had his bag and next vic in the car. I think they're waiting on us to start the interrogation. It sounds open and shut though."

After I finish, Gibbs stares at me expectantly.

"And?" he asks.

"That's it, I think." I check with Tony, who just shrugs. "Yeah, that's it. We're pretty sure."

"Vance told me you had a job offer, Tim." He keeps his eyes locked on mine. "In Marseille."

I feel the color drain from my cheeks. At that moment, I wish the world would stop long enough for me to formulate a response. Even if I knew what to say, my voice is lodged in my throat. Tony's lips are moving, likely struggling to produce some obscure movie quote. He loosens his tie, grimacing.

"It's not like that, Gibbs." He is tripping over his words. "I'm not poaching your people. I need an SSA and I asked Tim if he knew someone because – "

"You have my blessing," Gibbs interrupts, eyes jumping to Tony. "Both of you."

Tony and I blurt out, '_What?!' _in unison.

Gibbs faces me. "You proved you can handle a team, Tim. Do it."

Suddenly, the room is spinning. I sink onto the closest step and press my hand against my temple.

"Are you firing me, Boss?" My voice is weak.

"No, McGee. Still your choice, but I won't hold you back." Gibbs tilts his head at Tony. "I've been trying to show you it's time, but you're like DiNozzo. You didn't really get the message."

My frown deepens as my gut sinks. Everything I have been feeling for the past few months was a sign. A way to tell me that it was time to move on with my life, my career. Even if I don't want to admit it, maybe Gibbs is right. Maybe Delilah is right. It is time.

"Just don't ask me to say goodbye, Tim," Gibbs says.

I half-smile. "What about 'see you around'?"

"That I can do."

I look up at Tony. His expression is as excited as I feel.

"When do I start?"

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Author's Note:** _Thanks again for all the favs, follows and reviews. I still get excited to see readers get excited about my stories. This one likely get an epilogue eventually. I'm still trying to figure out exactly how I'd like to bring everyone back together again. _


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